


one more step

by ninetwothrees



Series: lessons in motion [1]
Category: GOT7
Genre: Canon Universe, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:23:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11413050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninetwothrees/pseuds/ninetwothrees
Summary: A knock on the door changes everything.





	one more step

**Author's Note:**

> i was having markbam feels and this happened?
> 
> title from _prove it_ because subtlety not found.

Jackson isn’t flying over to join them for their schedules until tomorrow so for their first night overseas Bambam is without a hotel buddy.

Bambam isn’t _happy_ about it, per se. He genuinely likes having another person around and Jackson is one of his favorite people to have around, and despite his opinions on Bambam’s evening rituals, Jackson tolerates them without (much) complaining, which in turns gives Bambam nothing to complain about.

But, just for once, he doesn’t really mind either. He feels boring on certain nights, in a pleasant, ‘all I need is a bit of music, a comfortable bed, possibly a glass of wine’ kind of way. His sister teases him that he’s gotten old and he tells her to wait a year or two for the need of all things lazy and comfortable to kick in. Maybe that does make him old.

Tonight he feels like _Prove It_ on repeat, his go-to song still and always. He keeps telling Jaebum to produce more _Prove It_ -like tracks but secretly doubts anything could decrown it from the number one spot in Bambam’s heart, and he means it as a compliment.

He changes into his bathrobe, carefully folding his outfit of the day and putting it on the chair. It is nice, not having to wince at Jackson’s disregard for clothes in his tendency to drop them on the floor after he gets out of them. The hotel room is just Bambam’s style, with the option to dim the lights to one’s liking, and he does so and admires the atmospheric sanctuary he’s set up for himself.

And… no roommate nights have another advantage he feels like making use of tonight: he can enjoy a good wank and doesn’t have to resort to the bathroom. Sometimes he wonders if Jaebum has realized Bambam was bound to masturbate with _Prove It_ as background music at one point or another. Sometimes he considers telling him just for kicks. (Bambam doesn’t see it as weird, though. He’s proud that _Prove It_ has GOT7’s name on it but it has become an entity on its own, one that he can listen and, well, masturbate to without acutely thinking of how it’s his members singing it.)

He takes out the lube from his suitcase and puts the tissue box on the bedside table, because he’s nothing if not thorough when packing for travels, and then he’s finally ready, settles down, squeezes a drop of lube into his palm and reaches between his legs.

He starts out slow, holding his dick with the lightest touch, running his hand up and down in the slowest motion; he likes a good build-up, the almost-torture of it, likes to see himself grow into his hand. He keeps at it even once he’s solidly hard, _Prove It_ into its third loop. He thinks of nothing, no one in particular, not yet, only experiences the moment, how his breath gradually deepens with each stroke.

And then someone knocks on the door.

Bambam drops his hand, feeling in flagrante even though no one can access the room from the outside and he hasn’t gotten loud enough for them to hear. Before he can steady his breath and ask who’s the cause of the interruption, the person identifies himself: Mark’s voice calls out his name in a question from behind the door.

Bambam counts to seven. “Yeah?” As it escapes his mouth, he belatedly realizes he could have pretended to be asleep, get rid off him and, he guesses, actually go to sleep because who could continue after the cold shower of a reminder of Mark’s existence. Despite that guess, his dick stays on pause, as hard as he left it, which is most inconvenient.

“Let me in,” is all Mark says as a way of explanation. Entitled much?

“I’m tired,” he calls back, not feigning the annoyance in his voice.

“I have food.” And, fuck. That _is_ an adequate argument for opening the door, under normal circumstances anyway. They seek each other out for sharing a meal often, as sort of a habit since their trainee days, and neither of them says no to any food offers at any given time.

“I’m _tired_ ,” he tries again. It can happen.

“So?”

“So, I’m tired.”

“I have food.”

Excellent. Mark’s in the mood to completely disregard Bambam’s side of the exchange. “Any chance at all of you leaving?” He senses a losing battle, so as he asks, he puts all his remaining focus on willing his boner to come down.

There’s only silence but Bambam knows that’s Mark’s way of answering, as in a negative. If Bambam repaid in the same manner and refused to budge, sure, Mark would eventually have to leave, but Bambam finds the image of that humiliating, with him as the humiliator, and if it’s between the risk of embarrassing himself and being an asshole... It’s time to walk into the minefield and pray for his bathrobe to save him.

He stumbles out of the bed and examines the situation. At least it’s not an actual tent, but the outline of his dick is still dangerously apparent under the fabric, as much as he keeps mentally trying to talk some sense into it. He wipes his hands with a tissue and, wincing, walks up to the door.

He opens it only slightly so he can turn his back to Mark before he sees him. He hears the door close again as he hurriedly plops back on the bed, lies down on his stomach - an uncomfortable sacrifice for the sake of his dignity - and watches an unconcerned Mark approach with two boxes of dosirak and join him on the bed, oblivious to Bambam’s faint hope he would go for the chair.

In the midst of his inner chaos, he wonders if Mark went to whatever Korean restaurant he got it from himself, all for the prospect of sharing the bit of their home-away-from-home with Bambam. He’s used to their little routine and doesn’t spare it a second thought but sudden fondness and gratitude wash over him, even as he wouldn’t do anything as cheesy as to tell Mark.

Of course, he would be more grateful if Mark could somehow read his mind signals and postpone their dosirak date till the morning. But no, he _is_ lying on his awkward boner and Mark _is _ setting up their meals, and Bambam will have to get through this.

Truthfully, he is far from bashful. He likes being a bit shameless, doesn’t mind walking around the dorm naked, much to a couple of hyungs’ disdain, and has masturbated with Yugyeom in the room when he was fairly, though not a hundred percent sure, that Yugyeom was asleep. But Bambam also has his limits and - not that he had to define it before today - showing off his boner to his members would be behind the line he wishes not to cross.

Mark nods toward what’s supposed to be Bambam’s dosirak and Bambam shakes his head so Mark shrugs and digs into his own. He hasn’t spoken since he entered the room, which is very Mark of him. On the other hand, keeping so quiet isn’t very Bambam and he knows his current unBambamness could constitute as suspicious but he doesn’t trust himself to speak, all-too-aware of the betraying body part.

It seems to be working, too; in the outwardly calm quiet, Bambam keeps still and Mark keeps eating until he’s emptying the last of his meal. When he stands up to put both boxes on the desk and helps himself to water from the nearby bottle, Bambam thinks he’s reaching the unexpected light at the end of the tunnel. Until Mark sits down again.

At the back of Bambam’s mind he gets envious of Mark’s post-meal state, the satisfaction of just having finished delicious food. Mostly, though, he’s on the verge of telling Mark to fuck off already. He did tell him he was tired so who’s the bigger asshole here, really?

“So,” Mark says before Bambam can get to it, his expression, consistently stoic until now, breaks into a smirk, and Bambam recognizes the calm before the storm for what it was. “Are we supposed to pretend that’s not here?”

Bambam follows his line of sight even as he knows it’s going to end up on the evidence he didn’t realize he left behind. But then, in another twist, he finds some of his self-consciousness dissolving and regains confidence in righteous annoyance that Mark smugly thinks he’s smart or funny or whatever it is he thinks. “So what, like I don’t know what _you_ are doing when you take your time in the shower,” he shoots at him and sits up, because fuck it. It’s not Bambam’s fault Mark felt the need to insert himself into his room uninvited, and why should Bambam feel embarrassed for doing what everyone does in his private time.

Mark’s smirk stays on but now with an almost demure undertone, which throws Bambam’s feeling of clarity off, as much as the fact that Mark isn’t following common sense and (smugly) leaving.

“What?” he snaps again, more defensively than he’d like. Mark’s smirk melts into something else but the confusing demure vibe stays, and his eyes drop to, there’s no doubt about it, the area where the bathrobe is hanging over Bambam’s undying boner. Another _what_ gets stuck in his throat and all his thoughts but the one-word question disappear. He hardly registers his recorded self is speak-singing his part in _Prove It_. He only waits for the unknown, for things to return to understandable levels.

Mark glances up at him. “Can I?” And he looks down again, like he wants to explain before more _what_ s surface.

“ _Ha ha._ You’re funny.” Bambam finally finds his voice, aiming for sarcastic but coming out weak, because right now, in this rollercoaster of emotions, he’s positively mortified.

Mark doesn’t confirm the reasonable hypothesis. He keeps acting like he’s being serious, very Mark yet so foreign to everything Bambam thought he knew about Mark, and Bambam allows himself to understand. Mark _is_ being serious.

Bambam gulps. His mind is grasping for options but it keeps circling back to only one. He’s scared as his sense of order shatters, and in equal amount he’s secure in his newfound desire. Mark can and he wants him to.

He doesn’t dare say it but he trusts Mark to know the answers in his silence.

Mark’s scoots closer, and Bambam watches him pull at the loose belt of his bathrobe, making it slip open by Bambam’s side, and he watches him watch his hard-on, and then his hand reaching forward and his fingers wrapping around it, sending a shock of sensation into it, and Bambam releases the breath he’s been holding.

He can’t quite overcome the combination of bafflement and amazement that it’s _Mark_ ’s hand that is on his cock. Mark, his groupmate and his oldest friend after his move to Korea. Mark, whom he takes for granted, whom he’ll always be thankful to, who he feels utterly comfortable with, only now with their perception of each other shifted, and for a brief moment he thinks of his too-skinny body, one that Mark has seen countless times but never with sexual intention (or has he?), and he wonders if it’s enough, if it can hold up to the gaze, but the moment passes because it’s Mark, who mocks Bambam as Bambam mocks him, but never when it matters, and it’s Bambam whom Mark asked if he could.

Mark thumbs the head of his cock, brushes over his slit, smearing at the precum, and then trails his every vein, like he’s mapping them, and every touch burns Bambam with intensifying arousal. Mark’s face is close, so close he might be able to feel Bambam’s heavy breathing, and it’s the focused face that he often wears with a hint of the same shy fear like Bambam’s, he notices, and it lessens his, and it’s not just the hand, caressing his burning cock, being so good at it - Bambam now knows that Mark is good at handjobs, and he wonders who, if anyone, has the same knowledge; it matters that it’s Mark, the awkward, serious Mark, who’s filling him with pleasure, always pretty but now in so many ways Bambam never noticed before.

Bambam gives into experiencing, no thinking, tensing under Mark’s hand, Mark with his palm around his cock, alternating between gentle touches and timely squeezes, and Bambam begins shaking with anticipation for what each stroke and the dirty smacking sound accompanying it will bring. He startles when a second warm touch holds onto his thigh, and a whimper escapes him at the escalated speed that comes after, another when it slows down again.

Mark looks up at him and their eyes meet just as Mark moves his hand for another round of fast pumps, and Bambam whimpers again, both at the action and the exposure, his cheeks heated up, sweat forming on his forehead, all for Mark to see, for him alone to know what Bambam looks like when he’s being ruined, at his most obscene.

And Bambam has to find out. He makes the decision in no time at all. It’s Mark’s turn to stare when Bambam reaches over, and he stops stroking him, but while Bambam grabs for the zip of Mark’s pants with one hand, he puts the other hand on Mark’s hold of him and urges him to continue. They move together and Bambam unzips him and sees it. Mark is hard, too, and Bambam feels fearless now, releases Mark’s cock before trapping it in his fist, and Mark lets out a wonderful, uncontrolled sob.

Bambam wants to hear it again, knows he would do anything for it, and he begins exploring the length of Mark’s cock as Mark is moving his hand along his in a steadied rhythm. Mark’s mouth falls open and Bambam feels like he’s never been more turned on in his life, small, breathy noises building up with the momentum, echoed by helpless responses from Mark.

Mark’s hand moves from his thigh up to his waist, then his ribs, back to his waist, gripping his side strongly enough to leave prints, and it turns Bambam more desperate, to feel and to make feel, crying out from the magnitude of the pressure in his cock and Mark’s presence, within his touch, his sight, his hearing, and knowing he’s doing the same for Mark. His pelvis moves to work with Mark’s hand. _You know I’m all about you_ , the recorded Mark sings, and the real-life Mark follows it up with a gasp, closing his eyes.

But Bambam doesn’t look away and waits, adds another hand to cup Mark’s balls, strokes his dick with less calculation and more franticness, given his own undone state, but still with the intent to make Mark squirm and whine, which he does increasingly so, keeping his eyes shut tight. “Mark...” Bambam says, pained but firm; an addressal. “Mark.”

And Mark understands and looks at him. They hold the gaze, and Bambam reads the want in Mark’s glossy eyes, the same overwhelming amazement Bambam feels, but it’s Bambam’s hands, _Bambam_ doing it to him. Bambam moans and can hardly keep track of his hold on Mark anymore, beyond the slick and weight and moving his fist up and down, squeezing, pinching, rubbing at his balls.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can take his own cock screaming with pleasure, multiplied with every pump, every centimeter of contact. He frees one of his hands and grasps the one Mark’s kept on his waist (but can feel the press of his fingers after it’s gone), and Mark clasps it in return. Bambam’s eyelids feel heavy but he makes himself keep watching Mark watching him, the longest he’s ever held eye contact with anyone. “Little more,” he breathes out and Mark is pumping him in what feels like a lot more until it reaches the top, Bambam’s back arches and he comes, whimpering through it, and his eyes are unable to stay open anymore, so he lets them fall and shakes, holding hands with Mark and his other squeezing Mark’s cock, and feels several loads of cum shoot on his bare stomach and chest.

He is coming down from the high, Mark guiding him through the final releases, when the hand drops his sensitive cock and he feels the fingers dip into the fluid sticking to his stomach and then it’s above Bambam’s hand clutching the base of Mark’s dick, too feeble to keep up the rhythm, and he knows Mark is finishing himself off, with Bambam’s cum as lubricant. Bambam opens his eyes to Mark having now shut off his vision and he looks in awe at Mark’s face, scrunched up but still handsome, never more, the fast heaving of his chest, and finally his ruddy cock, glossy with Bambam’s cum.

“Come on me,” Bambam whispers quickly, remembering that Mark is wearing clothes through the haze of his mind, and Mark lets out a cry and comes on Bambam like he told him, and Bambam wonders if Mark liked that, the thought or Bambam telling him what to do or both, and he likes it, too, the thought turned reality at his words, Mark’s cum this time landing on his body.

Mark is in the aftermath now, still, breathing, and Bambam begins to feel disadvantaged with how ahead he is, with first reminders of everyday life, the hotel room, the schedules awaiting them tomorrow, creeping up on him. He doesn’t know what to do his hands all of a sudden, awkwardly puts one on his knee but keeps holding Mark’s in the other.

Without a warning, Mark opens his eyes, and Bambam should say something but he has no clue as to what. Luckily it’s Mark who, without the need to speak, moves first, and Bambam feels scared all over again when the anchor of Mark’s hand lets go, but the spike of panic leaves him as quickly as it arrived when Mark reaches for the box of tissues and starts cleaning Bambam off, concentrated, very Mark; it is, after all, still Mark.

A few tissues and thorough cleaning later, strangely familiar yet new and almost unbearably intimate, which Bambam just lets happen, doesn’t disturb the job Mark’s taken on with the same earnest zeal he gives everything, Mark gets up, fixes himself back into his pants, and leaves into the bathroom where Bambam can hear a stream of water from the tab. His heart thumps in his chest, and it’s his turn, he thinks. And he thinks of the scripts that would make this, if not easier, at least convenient, a deal they could make, of two friends helping each other out, that’s that, and the inevitable awkwardness the day after they would not comment on and that would likely go unnoticed by anyone but them nonetheless.

But it wasn’t that, it wasn’t nothing more than a helpful hand, and Bambam stands up, takes a few steps, hesitates, wraps the bathrobe around himself, and continues to the bathroom. Mark is by the sink, cleaning his hands, and, too soon, glances up and meets Bambam’s eyes in the mirror.

It is odd, this mix of sheepish and comfortable that Bambam’s never felt before and didn’t think to imagine, as he walks up to Mark, who turns his back to the sink, leans against it, waiting, perhaps without a certain idea of the moments to come like Bambam before. Bambam spent minutes with Mark’s face up close and hands on each other’s dicks, but this time it feels different. “Um. Can I?” Bambam says stupidly.

Mark licks his upper lip, not suggestively, more like a reflex, and Bambam closes the distance and, without realizing what he’s doing until he does it, kisses Mark’s cheek. He pulls back to Mark raising his eyebrows, giving him a slightly incredulous look, which Bambam probably deserves. He gulps and goes for it, briefly presses his lips against Mark’s, all his senses alert to yet more precious knowledge, and returns to studying Mark’s face, what changes it has undergone. It’s relaxed and content, and so Bambam does it again and doesn’t break the kiss this time, tilts his head a little, feels Mark’s fingertips on his jaw and cheekbones and shivers with them, moves his lips, tentative but undoubting, darts his tongue to taste him, simultaneously filled with incredible calm and excitement, lost in the warmth.

And then Mark’s body startlingly jerks away from him. “What the fuck,” Bambam lets out just as Mark says, “Oh my goodness.” It takes a while for Bambam to process what he’s seeing, which is that Mark fell into the sink. Who falls into the _sink_?

Mark starts giggling, his lips wet from Bambam and spread in joy, and Bambam grimaces with judgement but can’t help but laugh, too. “Whatever, I’m hungry,” he says, remembering the dosirak in the room. He grabs Mark under his arms and with a pull helps him put his feet back on the ground.

He’s hungry and giddy, though, and so he indulges the latter first and pulls Mark toward himself for one last deep kiss before he goes to satisfy the former. He wants to make the deal clear: once not starving, he would welcome plenty more kisses to follow.


End file.
